


And Just Forget The World

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [9]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), Helluva Boss (Web Series)
Genre: 1 Corinthians 13:13, 3.6 roentgen, Alastor isn't Terrible at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barebacking, Car Sex, Creampie, Crossdressing, Day 1 Dancing, Day 7 Happily Ever After, Demisexuality, Destination Wedding, Exhibitionism, F/M, Feelings, Guess Where At, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Cherri Bomb (Hazbin Hotel), Human Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel), Human Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Last Timezone, M/M, Maid of Dishonor, Multi, Public Sex, RadioDust Week, Romantic Fluff, Sex Positive Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Slight Asphyxiation, Slight Voyeurism, Smut, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: Day 1 and 7 of RadioDust week: Dancing and Happily Ever AfterAs wedding bells sound in the distance, proclaiming the union of Angel’s friends, Alastor can’t help but wonder.What is the absence of love? What is the embodiment of it?Alastor, with all his erudition, falters in that singular area.One thing, for certain: It doesn’t happen in one fell swoop. It happens gradually, and just so.
Relationships: Alastor & Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Cherri Bomb/Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 24
Kudos: 186





	And Just Forget The World

**Author's Note:**

> "I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing  
> than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance."
> 
> -E. E. Cummings, from his poem, "you shall above all things be glad and young."

Angel hitches up his dress, positions himself above Alastor, and slides down his dick.

The slight burn of Angel’s tight hole snakes spirals of white-hot pleasure up his spine. Angel bites his lip as he works his hips up and down. Alastor releases a soft groan as Angel clenches around him, adjusting to the difficult angle. He reclines his seat as far back as he can possibly go.

The car rocks with their conjoined movements.

The parking structure is not as crowded as one would assume for a Saturday evening. Most of the guests are either at dinner, resting in their rooms in preparation for the night, or taking an evening stroll along the promenade. It is too early for partygoers and too late for homebodies.

The perfect time, therefore, to partake in such delicious sinful pleasures of the flesh.

He tightens his grip on the handles of Angel’s hips. The plush skin gives way to indentation, and Alastor firmly fights down the impulse to dig in, to _mark_. He struggles to breathe as Angel’s hole clenches around his cock, choking it in a vice grip. The glide of him pulsating up and down is torture of the breathtaking variety. Angel, aptly nicknamed, undulates with such finesse. He radiates confidence, bordering on arrogance, and Alastor wants, with every bone in his body, to punish him and to cede control.

The latter is, of course, laughable, a pipe dream, but oh, the first.

The first is distilled temptation, garden of Eden variety.

He does allow Angel the semblance of control for the time being. Alastor loves spoiling his darling. It makes him so agreeable after the deed, and pliable for the next time.

The pleasure builds in gradual, rolling waves, especially when Angel takes himself in hand and starts fucking into his loose fist. He arches his back as he tugs down his foreskin, lubing up his cock with his own precum. It pearls prettily at the tip, and Alastor salivates at the sight.

Pavlov’s dog, he thinks, more aroused than amused. He guides Angel’s hips through the distraction, while Angel bucks and moans above him in a most hedonistic performance. He’s positively kittenish, but it skitters too close to an act. For one, Angel’s chest is hardly flushed; blushing is his telltale signal of intense arousal.

Alastor will remedy that.

He removes a hand from Angel’s hips and gently places it around his throat. He starts to tighten his grip as Angel’s eyes widen. Alastor tuts, squeezing lightly. Angel stutters his hips in either pleasure or fear (or a combination of both) and Alastor feels as his cock is freed from the warm confines of Angel’s ass. He hisses, bereft.

As Alastor tightens his hold, Angel closes his eyes, slitting them as he fights for breath. His hand moves faster over his cock, and he cants his hips, chasing the rush. He whimpers, but it’s a garbled mess. His eyeliner, smudged; his lashes, wet; his lipstick, imperfect.

His darling Angel, seraphic as ever.

Alastor forces down the clamoring beast. He relinquishes his hold on Angel’s throat. There’s a dissatisfied moue from above, which he shushes deliberately. It won’t do them any favors should they surface with bruises mottled around Angel’s neck. Present company and a select few others excluded, most did not understand the extent of their sexual play; and at any rate, Alastor fancies himself a private individual.

Or at least, he _did_.

Angel, with his provocative and amorous habits, plants a grenade in the engine room and blows that idea out of the water.

Privacy.

How laughable, he thinks. Especially at this juncture.

Case in point:

Alastor grabs him by the neck, and growls one word: “Out.”

He reaches for the door handle, pulls it, and pushes it open with his elbow. As Angel obeys, albeit with a shocked expression, he grits out, “The hood. Spread your legs and bend over.”

He can almost hear Angel’s heart thumping in his chest. That little exhibitionist muscle of his adores the idea, Alastor knows. He jumps off of Alastor quicker than necessary and does exactly what he commands, to a T. Alastor gingerly steps out of the car, stroking himself back to hardness.

He rucks Angel’s hemline up, admiring the expanse of creamy skin. For once, he lingers on the tattoo, lovingly circling his thumb around it.

The offending letter is gone and now it states: Property of Al. In capital letters, bordered by a heart.

It’s perfect, he thinks before shoving in.

Flawless.

He thrusts inside with abandon, nailing the spot of nerves with precision. He intends to give credence to the proclamation in the tattoo every chance he gets. As he pistons in, he orders Angel to fuck his hand, but to his delighted dismay, Angel is already pumping.

“Oh darling, you obey so marvelously.”

Angel moans, low and sweet. Continents of rose start to bloom along his upper back, in between the scandalous dip of the dress. The straps fall down his shoulders as his body quakes with Alastor’s thrusts. Alastor can feel Angel tightening, his body drawing up in anticipatory release.

Two things happen at once:

One: A car rumbles down the ramp, but veers into a different direction at the last second.

Two: Alastor murmurs, “Go ahead, beloved.”

Angel comes.

He writhes and shudders and gasps out Alastor’s name. It comes out, a prayer.

Alastor suddenly knows full well what spurred Angel’s release, and for once, it has nothing to do with exhibitionism, the perverse thrill of being caught.

The thought pushes him over the edge.

With a shout, he leans forward and bites down on the naked skin between Angel’s shoulder blades. His cock thickens as he empties all he has into Angel. The feeling of releasing into him is, as always, unparalleled.

There’s only one place that Alastor can go. There’s only one place he can find relief.

It’s in Angel. It always _has been_.

The thought is sobering.

They clean up as best as they can: Alastor adjusts the straps of Angel’s dress, tucks himself back into his trousers, while Angel smooths his front as best as he can (“Baby, I’m goin’ to be leakin’ you out the whole night”), fixing Alastor’s tie back to rights.

Angel’s makeup is mussed and so is Alastor’s hair, but it’ll do.

He offers Angel his arm. Angel takes it, smiling, and they saunter towards the elevators.

Along the way, Alastor rifles through his trouser pocket, palms out a couple of loose change and lobs it at a car window. The car stops shaking, and a face peers out sheepishly.

“Voyeur,” Alastor grouses while Angel laughs.

Who even invited Stolas to this shindig, Alastor thinks crossly.

It’s only a god-forsaken wedding.

* * *

The ceremony itself was uneventful and insipid. At least, in Alastor’s opinion. Weddings were so monotonous, even with the added (and supposed) bonus of pomp and circumstance.

The vows bored him, as usual.

Rather, at least one party’s.

Pentious gave the typical, banal, C of E, bog-standard tripe that even he could recite from memory. Alastor may not be religious, but as the Shakespearian saying goes, even the devil can cite scripture for his purpose.

Cherri’s vows were far more entertaining.

In fact, Alastor, in all his years of life, managed to go without seeing a priest sweat that profusely or turn that specific shade of red. Such a pity, and what a performance.

“Raunchy” didn’t come near enough to describe it. “Salacious” and “louche” were closer, but no cigar.

 _Merde_ , he thought as he cleared his throat at her choice of vocabulary. He didn’t necessarily care for Pentious, but he wished him luck all the same.

He sneaked a glance over at Angel. His lover appeared enraptured in the whole mess. He beamed, eyes glassy while standing next to Cherri in his bridesmaid’s dress. Alastor beat down the urge to leave his place at Pentious’s side, next to the rest of the groomsmen, to reassure Angel.

Of what, he wasn’t sure.

The ceremony ended (“You may kiss the…okay, prematurely is fine, too”) and the guests shuffled out into the sunset.

Angel released a shaky breath, shoulders pulled back in a taut line. He seemed a hair’s breadth close to crying, so Alastor sighed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Angel leaned in, habit. He reached up to lace his fingers with Alastor’s.

The world was afire in overturned pails of sienna and amethyst, stretching flamelike towards the horizon. The ambient song of the sea lilted with each soft splash of the waves, pulled ashore by tide and deep ocean currents. Salt notes drifted heavily in the wind, weightier on the tongue. Alastor savored it, the taste, and transported back to his past.

For a second, home was the endless emerald bayou, the incessant chirping in trees beyond, and brackish, bloody water.

One second.

In the remaining time thereafter, home was here.

Angel gripped his hand tighter, cooing at the clouds.

Home was wherever the hell Angel was.

(Where his heart is)

He smiled, taking a moment to capture the scene. In the pinhole of his mind, he seized it. He committed it to memory, however fallible it may be.

Here it is, in his mind’s eye, in all its glory: Angel, with the sky reflected in his mismatched eyes, swathed in golds and reds, glowing with the exuberance of someone impossibly young.

The angle is even better, he thought. It proves the cameraman is unspeakably close.

Then Angel turned and kissed him slowly, and that was far better.

He murmured, soft vibrations against Angel’s lips, and provided a suggestion.

Pulling back with a wink, Angel led him to their car.

* * *

This wedding drones on forever, thinks Alastor. He is still in disbelief that he agreed to attend.

Angel, by contrast, appears to exult in the entire process, preening the whole day in his admittedly lovely bridesmaid’s dress as maid of honor.

Cherri also paints a pretty picture in her gown, opting at the last minute to adorn a classic vintage one instead of the modern mermaid lace-up monstrosity she planned on wearing. Alastor, with his keen eye for fashion, agreed with that decision.

Styles like that were so few and far between, while the latter, although not terrible, was so ubiquitous that one could flip through a wedding magazine and choose a page at random, and _voila_ , the same dress.

Angel, who had been at the fitting, informed him later that it was his decision that ultimately swayed Cherri. At the time, Angel texted him the picture of the gown, and he responded favorably. It was the only prompt response to any of the previous texts, and Cherri took that as a sign.

“Bitchy asshole’s fuckin’ right,” she was quoted as saying.

So, there it went.

He watches Pentious hobnob with the guests and the rest of the rabble as he makes his required rounds. The other groomsmen hover awkwardly nearby, trying and failing to make eye contact with the eligible bridesmaids. The best man, whose name Alastor forgot and thus nicknamed him “Twenty-three”, seems keen on Loona, who does not look at all receptive.

Ah well, he thinks. As Angel likes to say, “You win some, you lose a few hundred.”

He keeps an eye on Charlie and Vaggie for good measure as they flit around the room, at times lingering too close to Vox’s and Stolas’s spheres. He slits his eyes as he peruses what else the proverbial cat dragged in. Lucifer, consorting with a mutual associate at the buffet, meets his scrutinizing glare and lifts his drink in mock solidarity.

He wrestles back a snarl. The venue is crawling with loathsome pests, but it would do no good for him to dwell on such matters now.

Alastor cages the beast with saccharine promises. Once their plane reaches the tarmac, it’s no holds barred. As it stands, however, they are all abiding by an unofficial armistice in the meantime.

He searches for his lover in recompense and finds him at the front of the ballroom.

Angel cavorts near Cherri, fulfilling his duties as maid of honor.

Alastor doesn’t mind.

As it is, he’s imbibing leisurely on his whisky, content with resting under the shimmering canopy of stringed lights. He dips his head backward, gazing up at them.

He can’t remember the last time he attended a wedding. He closes his eyes. The next one, bar none, may well be soon, what with Husk spending the majority of his free time with Niffty, either at her apartment or within his room at their house.

God, he thinks unkindly. He hopes Husk doesn’t ask him to be his best man. The pit in his stomach all but confirms his suspicion. He wonders how Niffty would react to the suggestion of a courtroom wedding. He has a vivid vision of her small frame attacking him, so he dismisses the thought.

Weddings are so much more vexing than they have any right to be.

The sudden change in music jars him from his reverie. He stirs, then peers over towards the ballroom floor.

It’s of no real importance. Just another vacuous spectacle. They’re performing the asinine garter toss.

Alastor refuses to budge. It’s a ridiculous tradition, he thinks, steeped in misogyny and bordering on unnecessary sexual connotation.

It _is_ Cherri’s wedding, however. Shame is a concept she probably had surgically removed.

Raucous laughter bubbles up from the crowd. Alastor doesn’t bother to look. He can sense Pentious’s embarrassment from where he sits. The thrice-damned disc jockey, Trench, switches songs again. A chorus of giggles erupt from the dance floor, but it’s drowned out by a notification to his phone.

Alastor picks it up, intrigued. It’s a text from Millie over at the station.

It reads:

**Hey Al, do ya think you can take over for Moxxie next week Wed? It’s our anniversary and Blitzo’s giving us a hard time**

**Sure**

Alastor texts back.

She responds with a heart emoji and a:

**Love ya, bless ya heart, will make it up promise**

Alastor registers the cacophonous roar in the background, but his mind is too focused on combing through the possible topics he can cover during that time slot.

His phone buzzes with another text.

His eyes narrow as he notices who it’s from.

 _Vox_.

It simply reads: **Look up asshole**

He complies, but with great disinclination.

Alastor’s jaw promptly unhinges from his skull.

Angel beams, crushing the bouquet against his chest in a death hug. The other bridesmaids and women swarm him, chirping out their congratulations. He swivels his head to look at Alastor.

He’s transcendent in his elation.

Alastor is sure that his own shell-shocked countenance is anything but.

A devilish, reprehensible mien washes over Angel’s face. He smirks while Alastor pales, then grimaces.

He downs the rest of his drink.

Shoving his seat unceremoniously backward and standing up, Alastor marches over to the open bar. Without preamble, he signals for another whisky, neat, but not before snatching Vox’s drink out of his hand and emptying it down his gullet.

“You fucking-”

“Vox,” he says weakly. Bless the bartender, Alastor thinks, and his affinity to read body language. He grabs the freshly made drink off the tablecloth.

“Just. Let me have this. Just the one.”

He tilts his head back and accepts the burn.

Vox sighs, but relents.

They stand in almost companionable silence for a moment or so. They stand there for a fleeting moment before Vox opens his fat fucking mouth.

“So when should I save the date?”

It’s not the first time Alastor has been kicked out of an event, and it probably won’t be the last.

* * *

“Fuckin’ really? Al, ya goddamn know I wanted to dance with ya,” Angel whines. The tradewinds buffet against his dress, fluttering it fetchingly, reminding Alastor of the jellyfish they saw at the aquarium earlier that week. He licks his lip, tongue retreating with the metallic taste of blood.

“Vox, outta all fuckin’ people! My goddamn _manager_ , Al,” he continues, grousing. Alastor takes a moment to admire how Angel can’t seem to rein in his arms when he’s incensed. It’s so endearing and as inebriated as he is, he can’t find it in himself to smother the surge of affection.

It fails to hinder his mouth, however.

“I hate him,” Alastor says, honestly and as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

It is.

The phrase is miles easier than the other one he shakily whispers to Angel in the depths of night when he’s half sure he can’t hear the admission. To say it is Alastor’s Achille’s heel is correct. Therefore, he does not utter it often, but when it does, he tries to infuse it with the weight of worlds. As callous and cautious Alastor is, it’s such a jarring paradigm shift.

His lip swells. He’s the same height as Vox, but faster, and he landed enough blows to incapacitate him for a while. He rips a page from Angel’s book and preens, peacocking what little damage was inflicted on him.

Angel is categorically unimpressed.

He voices his opinion on the matter, but Alastor pays him no heed.

They reach the oceanfront.

Alastor is familiar with stiff bodies, cold justifications, and death. This stretches beyond his usual scope of dead bodies and sophistry. This is life, with all its bumps and bruises and scabs. Alastor can attest to that.

Shakespeare nailed it when he stated that the course of true love never did run smooth.

Lo and behold, it’s not quite midsummer’s eve, but it’s close enough in this tropical weather.

He fetches his phone from his pocket and shuffles through the playlist. Increasing the speaker noise to the highest volume, he places the phone down on the largest mound of sand. Alastor extends his arm.

Angel accepts it.

Alastor takes a moment to marvel at the contrast between the shades of their skin. Angel is barely dusted pink due to Alastor’s fastidious application of sunscreen (which devolved into other base things) on his person. Alastor, though keeping up with the same regimen, darkened inevitably in the sun. The polarity is stark.

But Angel thinks it’s wonderful and Alastor would not have it any other way.

Arms connected, they dance. They dance for a while, sand streaming between their toes, to a tinny playlist emitted from the speakers of a phone.

As their feet kick up sand, Alastor flicks through his memories. Angel is present in most of the ones that count. His mind returns to the afternoon, with Angel bathed in celestial light.

His dress really does suit him, he thinks absently. He vocalizes the sentiment and Angel laughs.

Alastor isn’t quite three sheets to the wind yet, but he appreciates the expression.

He lurches forward to kiss Angel on the mouth, and things fast forward from there.

He grabs at every part of Angel that he can reach, as their legs tangle together, Angel moving backward, and Alastor pushing forward.

They wade into the sea, but the water is shallow here.

They kiss, Angel’s dress floating up, buoyant due to the salinity, Alastor’s suit soaked.

They kiss and their only witnesses are stars existing, elegiac, above.

Later, much later, Alastor rests his head on the crook of Angel’s elbow and gazes up at the expanse of stars. This is where the world falls away.

Here, in this strange climate, he wonders about forever. He looks to the stars, to the interstellar answers they hold in clandestine navigational maps, and arrives at a wayward conclusion.

Forever is a considerable amount of time.

He circles back to the beginning, to the before even prior to the lockdown, when his curiosity got the better of him.

He recalls every instance since then, the reverent kisses, the constant touches, the indecent petting, the fights.

So, many fights.

Was it worth it, his mind whispers. Alastor answers, blithely, and honestly.

_Yes._

It is the best decision he’s ever made in his life.

Alastor pretends that the tears on his face are from saltwater. Angel, bless his heart, goes along with it.

Forever is a considerable amount of time.

But now, in this lighting, with Angel by his side, Alastor sees it as almost attainable.

He turns to Angel and their lips meet again.

Suddenly, forever doesn’t seem that long.

“I love you,” he says, quiet and unabashed under this unfamiliar sky.

And that’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song, "Chasing Cars", by Snow Patrol.
> 
> 1\. “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose” is a quote from Shakespeare’s “The Merchant of Venice.”
> 
> 2\. “The course of true love never did run smooth” is also from Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
> 
> 3\. If you haven’t been dicked down on the hood of a car, are you really living? (/sarcasm)
> 
> 4\. This has come a long way from the smutfest it was initially supposed to be. I blame/credit every one of you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you so much for the kind comments and motivation. Edit: I was informed by jake in the comments that "ol scratch" aka @dreadfluent made some amazing art for my insipid little AU and my god. How goddamn kind. I don't have twitter so wow. What an amazing person, for real.
> 
> And as much as they deserve adulation (they do), you do, too.
> 
> This is dedicated to all of you. Thank you, so very much.


End file.
